


Sheared the Wolf

by Fudgyokra



Series: Bad Things Happen Bingo [10]
Category: Teen Titans (Comics)
Genre: M/M, Moral Dilemmas, Non-Explicit Sex, Paralysis
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-03
Updated: 2020-03-03
Packaged: 2021-02-28 01:08:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,215
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22995208
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fudgyokra/pseuds/Fudgyokra
Summary: Slade is temporarily paralyzed. Dick loses his ethical footing just long enough to decide what to do about it.
Relationships: Dick Grayson/Slade Wilson
Series: Bad Things Happen Bingo [10]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1154129
Comments: 14
Kudos: 67





	Sheared the Wolf

**Author's Note:**

> Anon asked: for bingo hope it’s ok to ask for sladin noncon where dick take the advantage and let out his built up anger on a slade who’s fucked up by trigon’s soldier experiments and can only move his eye
> 
> Prompt: Can Only Move the Eyes
> 
> Title from DevilDriver’s “Digging Up the Corpses.”

Given the circumstances, Slade was not surprised to see Nightwing descending on his location tonight. There had been some commotion nearby, and while this particular building hadn’t been the hearth, it was close enough to the action that any goody two-shoes vigilante worth their salt wouldn’t neglect sweeping the area for potential clues. Hidden perps, hidden loot, hidden bombs—you name it.

Slade might not have been shocked by Grayson’s presence, but the same couldn’t be said of the inverse; the kid’s brows lifted his mask high enough up his forehead to be comical. He was like a puppy, cocking his head this way and that as he approached to examine how Slade was laid out on the operating table sequestered in the back of the warehouse.

It took a solid minute of cycling between poking him and recoiling before Grayson accepted the situation for what it was: An unfortunate case of temporary paralysis.

“Wow,” he said, jabbing the word into the air like a knife. “I expected a stolen goods stash, not _Night of the Living Dummy._ ”

 _That’s a children’s book,_ Slade did not say, even though he wanted badly to rib him for remembering such a title. _And the doll could_ move, _you idiot, so it isn’t as apt a metaphor as you seem to think it is—_ also hindered by his uncooperative tongue.

Grayson’s lips pressed into a line. He continued to study Slade, from the straps around his wrists and chest down to the ones around his ankles, one of which he curled a finger under and tugged at, testing the strength. Curious what could keep a man like Deathstroke down, perhaps?

A hand started trailing along his inner thigh, answering his question. While Grayson visibly considered the possibilities, the pressure of his touch remained tentative, almost like he was afraid of what he was doing. Not long after, it became more meaningful.

Slade narrowed his eye, the one thing he could control in this state of immobilization, but the warning went unnoticed.

“You’re really stuck here, huh?” Grayson asked, not meeting his gaze even though his own flicked everywhere else over Slade’s body. His tone wavered in confidence. “Nice to see you can be shut up.”

_I can’t say the same about you._

He couldn’t say anything at all. Not when his company’s thoughtful expression morphed into a grimace, nor when the humor in his aura dissolved, replaced by decisiveness.The choice he had made couldn’t have been more obvious to Slade, whose ability to read between the lines of such moral crises was well-honed.

Grayson bared his teeth and yanked at Slade’s belt, the catches coming undone between expert fingers because he knew where each of them hid as keenly as Slade knew where _his_ did. Had memorized their locations like points on a map.

What he was about to do was wicked, and he knew it. Shame seemed to etch itself into his every pore, yet he peeled the bottom half of his enemy’s suit down, anyway, lowering it just far enough to jam dry, gloved fingers inside the lax form beneath him.

Slade was still exhausted from fighting unforgiving toxins, ones that reshaped his nerves, his very _cells._ Considering the agonizing torture he had been through in the last few hours—spent screaming and thrashing until his muscles locked down completely—what his little fallen hero was doing hardly felt like a pinprick. The pain rolled right off.

Frankly, it was a hilarious attempt at inflicting damage.

When Grayson overcame this moment of delirium and hatred of everything Slade had put him through, he was going to turn it all inward. It was clear he was already beginning to regret it, but had already gone too far to turn back. Slade could see it in the hard clench of his jaw, the determined, desperate way he undid his own uniform, rolling it down from shoulders to ankles so he could climb on top of the operating table.

He removed the straps on Slade’s ankles, shoved his thighs apart and watched with a snarl still set on his face as they limply fell open.

“I hate you so much,” he hissed, “you don’t know how bad I want you—want you gone.” The hitch in breath, the subtle shift in the lilt of his words from one end of the sentence to the other… Slade would put himself through a hundred of these horrific transformations to hear that all the time.

It hurt. Grayson let it. He didn’t bother with saliva or anything else, only stroked himself to hardness and shoved all the way inside with a gasp that hit the surface of his lips like a poison.

Recalling this, the way all of his complicated, bottled-up emotions exploded, was going to keep him up at night. Slade didn’t even have to do a thing, and the kid would rip himself to shreds of his own volition. How _angry_ he was. How _vengeful._

Slade grunted on each downswing, a bitten-off noise he couldn’t control if he wanted to. His eye mapped out the way Grayson’s chest heaved, the way his arms trembled not from holding his own weight but from the crash of reality upon them. He still didn’t stop.

For a long time, it was just the two of them listening to the old table creak, eclipsing the careful breaths Grayson allowed to eke past his teeth. They could have been from pain or from pleasure, and Slade didn’t think it would have made a damn difference. Whether either of them enjoyed the hero’s fall from grace was inconsequential. The only thing that mattered was that it was happening at all.

Movements grew jerky. Hands shot out and clenched tightly on Slade’s forearms as if Grayson needed the hold to ground himself. A sob tore out of him, shaky and broken, and Slade thought for a moment he was going to cry. He didn’t, but he did choke on a whine when he finished, holding impossibly still as he panted through the crashing pleasure, unwilling to fully enjoy it. A gorgeous kind of self-flagellation.

Slade looked at the point of contact where their bodies met, then scrolled his eye back upward in a lazy, unimpressed blink.

The edges of the Nightwing mask smoothed out, suggesting Grayson’s eyes had gone wide. His breathing was still erratic by the time he yanked himself out of Slade and away from the table completely, redressing in a frenzy that reeked of guilt and shame and self-loathing so strong Slade would have smiled if he could.

Grayson started toward him again like he’d planned on putting his clothes back in place, then flinched and stopped in his tracks. He didn’t even speak, just ran his fingers through his own hair and spared the man one more look, which Slade held with venom until he disappeared.

_How vulgar of you to leave me here so disheveled, Richard. I’ll remember that._

At his sides, his fingers twitched. His eye narrowed to a slit while he stared at the ceiling and focused on trying to return mobility to sore, locked limbs. Soon he would be able to move freely, and the second he was out of here, he was going to return the goddamn favor.


End file.
